


Relations

by GoodTimesNewRoman



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Incest, Multi, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Toriel POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodTimesNewRoman/pseuds/GoodTimesNewRoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two races meet and try to fit into each other's boxes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relations

 

* * *

 

 

The humans say, ‘ _When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’_

This expression has no monster equivalent. The ‘world’ which had belonged to the monsters for so long was, after all, so much smaller. The most similar thing one monster might tell another is, ‘If you’re going to Snowdin, wear gloves!’ or something like that.

The humans have needed to make many changes for you. Books containing the earlier parts of their history had, at first, been poured over with fine-toothed combs, and they asked you, _so, what are the discrepancies you see?_

There had been debates. In the end they realised the need to pen entirely new books.

They have made new laws, too; so many new laws. On national curriculums, magic and—this last one still makes you smile—marriage. Last week a skeleton had thrown her arms around a human man’s neck and flung her bouquet farther than any of the bridesmaids could reach. They had aired it on live television.

_Not so bonely any more! Ehehe._

Yes, the humans—overall—have been very kind in their attempts to help you acclimate. And, as is only fair, you all must make adjustments too.

*

During the first few months, you end up more tangled in diplomatic affairs than you thought you would be and yes, more than you really wanted to. The words _King Asgore_ and _Queen Toriel_ don’t mean much any more, but the humans are very adamant that the monster race must have spokespeople, and you feel obligated to step in, lest that oaf seriously charge Frisk—the elementary schooler—with the responsibility.

So, during that early period, your time is mainly spent answering questions upon questions upon questions, from adults as well as children. At first, it is only the magic they are interested in. Magic and souls and all the things that you can do with them. All the threats that you can pose with them.

And it is during this time that you tread most carefully.

Later, though, they come with other questions. Asking how many types of monsters exist (you are made of magic, which has no constraints; theoretically, a monster could be shaped like anything). Asking about your culture (and there is little to say there; you were, for the most part, a civilisation surviving off of hand-me-downs. To see your culture, you tell them, they need only look at what their own was like, some time ago).

 _“Those skeletons,”_ someone says, _“why do they breathe?”_

 _“Well,”_ you reply, _“they are not human skeletons. They are monsters who are skeletons.”_

Brows furrow. Adult ones.

At some point, historians ask about the royal ancestry, so you draw out the family tree to the best of your memory. It’s splitting the line between yourself and Asgore and bringing it down to write _Asriel_ that is the most trying thing for you—it has you almost breaking the pencil, yet you refuse to exclude him—but the humans seem far more interested in the line above your name and Asgore’s; the one leading to your parents.

 _“. . . Well,”_ someone says, _“I suppose that, since you’re royalty. . .”_

And you realise what they’re referring to.

It has never been a common thing between humans. They are essence encased in flesh, and they must bend to the rules of it. You have read quite a bit about it; the way their biology gives them lizard brains—adrenaline and instinctual fear.

There are certain things which they naturally desire. And there are certain things which they are hard-wired to find revolting.

But you are not humans, bound by biology. You are monsters, made of magic.

And magic has no constraints.

*

You end up in a relationship, though not because you are actually interested in romance. You have flirted with the idea, now and then, but give it any real thought and you soon arrive at the conclusion that you could easily go another lifetime without wanting a lover, and all the nonsense that comes with having one.

You want to be a teacher; you want to be a mother to Frisk. For now, you don’t want anything else. This is not you being selfless, or modest; this is how you genuinely feel.

But you end up with Sans. You would claim that he 'started' it, but that would be childish; such things are never so simple.

He is your closest friend. He visits you frequently. You still exchange jokes constantly over the phone, and he is the one you go out drinking with, on those rare occasions when Asgore takes Frisk for a day or two. It’s during one of these evenings out that it begins.

You are sitting at the bar, in your own little quiet bubble away from all the chatter, sipping your drink, when Sans says _“hey, tori, can i come back to yours?”_

Just like that. Without warning. Speech a little slurred—he’d had more than the usual fare that night.

“ _Sans,”_ you laugh. _“What on Earth.”_

 _“aww, c’mon,”_ he says, offering you a wink. _“it could be a skele-ton of fun.”_

And you smirk at him, automatically, but don’t say anything. You play it off as coolly as you can, but you feel anxious and unsure as to how to respond. Sans is so laid-back, and yet remarkably upfront—it is one of the things you most enjoy about him—and he has never expressed an interest in you as anything other than a friend before.

It could simply be a joke brought on by too much alcohol, but such poor taste would be uncharacteristic of him. You don’t wish to harm his feelings, so you end up drawing out the silence as you think of something to say. But in the end, he takes your lack of response as an answer.

He shrugs, with a _heh. . ._

And then he says—

_“i’ll be honest with you. i can’t go home right now.”_

You look over. His gaze is fixed somewhere deep within his drink. It’s a strange, dark look you’ve never seen him wear before.

_“so. . . i’d really appreciate it.”_

You get the feeling this is a situation you ought not to step into. You get the feeling you should apologise and refuse, and perhaps even cite Frisk as an excuse if his expression begins to weigh on you too much.

But when Sans looks over at you, you simply nod.

You lose out to your mothering tendencies. He’s your friend, and you want to take care of him.

*

He leans back in the chair.

_“just. . . kissing, mostly. he’s been watching those trashy soaps—he got curious. and me, i’ve always. . . i thought it’d just be me humouring him one time. i didn’t think he’d really want—“_

He sighs. Throws an arm over his eyes.

_“he’s been doing so well up here. they like him; i don’t want to risk that. but i don’t want to confuse him, or mess with his head. i mean—i don’t want to tell him that what we did was. . . y’know.”_

_“I know, Sans. I know.”_

He keeps rearranging himself, unable to find a comfortable position.

_“it’d just be easier if i could say there’s someone else. he can bounce back from something like that, and we’d still be brothers, just. . .”_

_“I understand. But, Sans, are you sure that **you** will be all right?”_

_“huh? yeah. i’ll be fine.”_

_“. . . If you are sure.”_

_“yup. oh, and it, uh, goes without saying but we don’t actually have to. . . i mean, i’ll just hang around here and slob out on the couch.”_

_“You will not. You will assist with the dishes and”—_ you hold up the report card _—“help me to convey the importance of mathematics to Frisk when he gets home tomorrow.”_

And his eyes brighten for the first time that night.

*

He leans back on the bed.

_“mmf—yeah. like that. . .”_

Sighs. And throws an arm over his eyes.

Far too soon after your last conversation, you’ve got a hand deep in his rib cage. The glow from his chest is bathing the room in blue. And you think it’s a pleasant colour. Well-suited to him.

To a monster, the physicality of a partner matters very little. The different shapes monsters take are only superficial differences. What _makes_ a monster, in more than one way, is their magic. How it feels, what it conveys, and what you can gain from it should you choose to share in it.

It’s not the texture of bone, rather than fur, beneath your hands that has you hesitant. It’s more his magic, cool and calm and undeniably _Sans._ Even if he did have fur, and even if you closed your eyes, you would know it wasn’t—

And it’s ridiculous that, after all these years with your magic feeling perfectly complete in and of itself, you should _now_ be sensing that old absence. It’s ridiculous that something in you is saying _this_ _isn’t quite—_

But a part of you is still relieved when he flinches and says _stop, stop._ When he sits up and says _sorry, sorry._

You are relieved that you are not the first to lose your nerve.

*

Does it count as a relationship if your actions and interactions remain the same as before? You ask yourself that, occasionally. You are accustomed to courtship, and ceremony, but throw all of that away and it becomes much a matter of just saying it. Say it, and it becomes true.

You still use texts exclusively for joking. Your outings and conversations remain entirely cordial. You still mother him, preening and picking while encouraging him to take better care of himself.

On the outside, there is no evidence. But when asked, you say it, and it becomes true.

Neither of you are looking for anything new; your urges tend towards the familiar. Within you, there is a desire for something you cannot recover. Within him, there is a desire for something he feels he must leave behind. And none of it is correct, anyway, here in Rome.

There are marks on the both of you, indents laid in just enough so that intimacy is impossible. But because it’s the same for the two of you, there is understanding, and no bitterness. You don’t ever try it again, and you feel correct in that.

Perhaps magic does have its constraints, after all.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [My blog.](http://good-times-new-roman.tumblr.com/)


End file.
